


A Lovely, Lovely Night

by chibistarlyte



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Human, Bilbo Is Awesome, Charming Thorin, Crackfic that takes itself seriously, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Domestic Violence, POV Multiple, Sassy Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his parents' deaths, Bilbo's life was never the same. Toiling away, day after day, at the hands of his awful aunt and family, he wished for some sort of escape. </p>
<p>Bilbo never thought it'd come in the form of a prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lovely, Lovely Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was largely inspired by Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella. I meant for this to be a total crackfic but it turned...strangely serious. Almost 17k words later, and here it is.
> 
> I took tons of liberties with this, namely that everyone is human and Bilbo and his family live in Erebor (let's pretend the Shire/Hobbiton can be a province in the kingdom of Erebor or something). 
> 
> Beta'd by my awesome bestie/roommate Aki! Any remaining errors are entirely my own. Feel free to point mistakes out to me.
> 
> Enjoy!

Potatoes? Check.

 

Fresh lamb and fish? Check.

 

Fabric for Lotho’s new waistcoats? Check.

 

Bilbo Baggins closely examined the parchment clutched tightly in his hand, making sure he’d managed to purchase everything on the list. He hated shopping days—Lobelia was always absurdly specific in what she required, and oftentimes a trip that should have taken perhaps an hour at the most would take Bilbo almost all afternoon. Still, it was his job to do the shopping for his family, so here he was.

 

And with the red wine bottles cradled in one arm, that was everything.

 

Balancing the bottles precariously, he rolled up the parchment and stuffed it in the pocket of his ratty trousers. He surveyed all of his purchases for the day and let out a frustrated sigh. How on earth was he going to get all of this stuff back to Bag End? Lobelia never had the foresight to send him to market with a cart, so he’d most likely have to hire one—again—in order to get everything home.

 

He hoped he had enough money left in his budget to do so.

 

Bilbo spun on his heel and took barely two steps before colliding with something solid. He tipped backwards and landed on his rump with an “oof!” As he fell, the red wine bottles slipped from his grip and shattered on the ground, dousing him in fermented grape juice. As if his clothes weren’t tattered enough—now they’d be stained beyond salvation. He coughed and wiped drops of wine from his face, blinking his stinging eyes rapidly.

 

“Oh, Mahal, I’m _so_ sorry, I—“

 

Flailing his hands out, Bilbo shook his head vigorously. Droplets of wine went flying from his soaked curls. “No, no, please. It was my fault. My fault entirely.” When Bilbo could finally open his eyes properly, he looked up to see a rather handsome stranger—with the most apologetic expression—offering him a hand. Bilbo blinked a few times before letting out his umpteenth sigh for that day and taking the stranger’s hand.

 

The stranger pulled him up with ease—not surprising with how muscular he was. Once Bilbo straightened himself, he found it hard not to stare starry-eyed at the person before him. He was dressed in a dark blue tunic and dark pants that looked a little worse for wear, broken-in boots on his feet and fraying bands on his wrists. His long, dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and his equally dark beard was immaculately trimmed for how raggedly he was dressed. And though he looked no more than a village commoner, his very presence was regal and commanded attention.

 

Embarrassed by his misstep, Bilbo avoided the stranger’s penetrating gaze—it should be illegal for eyes to be _that_ blue, by Yavanna—and focused intently on the wine-stained cobblestones beneath his feet.

 

“Thank you,” he said at length, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face.

 

Only, it was missing.

 

Panic flooded him instantly, and he frantically looked around for his keepsake. Did he drop it somewhere? He couldn’t risk losing it—it was an heirloom of his father’s….

 

The stranger bent down some steps away, picking up a small square of cloth from the ground. He handed it out to Bilbo, who practically deflated with relief. “Is this yours?” the unusually deep voice asked. Its owner raised a brow.

 

“Yes! Oh, thank you so much,” Bilbo said with a slight bow as he took back his handkerchief. He didn’t notice the stranger tensing just a bit, too concerned with making sure the little thing wasn’t ruined. The gold B stitched into the white fabric gleamed up at him, and aside from a small stain of wine in the corner, it was perfectly fine. Bilbo praised the Valar and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket where it belonged.

 

“You shouldn’t thank me,” the stranger told him, a frown tugging his lips downward. “I’ve cost you several bottles of wine. I’ll gladly purchase more for you—“

 

“Oh, no!” Bilbo threw his hands up in a placating manner, shaking his head. At this rate, he was surprised his brain hadn’t started rattling in his skull for all he’d been shaking his head over the last few minutes. “I couldn’t possibly impose on you like that.”

 

“Nonsense,” the stranger replied. “Please, allow me to reimburse you for the trouble I’ve caused you.”

 

Those blue eyes bore into Bilbo’s very soul, it felt like, and he swallowed. Hard.

 

“Very well. If you insist,” he agreed, wiping his face of any lingering drops of wine before stowing his handkerchief back in his pocket. The stranger gave him a smile—a small one, but one that lit up his whole face nonetheless—and Bilbo nearly melted all over the street. “I’ll have to hire a cart as well for all my things…” he added, speaking more to himself than anyone else.

 

“I’ll pay for that as well.” The stranger’s tone brooked no argument; before Bilbo could say anything in protest, the stranger approached a rather burly, scary-looking man with knuckledusters and…were those tattoos on his head?

 

“Would you keep an eye on his belongings until we get back?” the stranger asked the man. The man nodded and gave an affirmative grunt as an answer. The stranger then turned to Bilbo and inclined his head. “Are you coming? I need you to show me what kind of wine you need.”

 

Needless to say, Bilbo had to jog to catch up with the stranger.

 

“Please!” he said almost breathlessly, slowing his pace just a little but still trying to keep up with the stranger’s long strides. “You really…ohhh! You’re doing all these things for me, and I don’t even know your name!”

 

The stranger paused, pulling the door to the wine shop open and holding it for Bilbo. “Rin,” he said after a few moments of consideration. “My name is Rin.”

 

Bilbo nodded in thanks and stepped into the wine shop. “Rin,” he repeated as he made for the rack where he could find the specific red wine he needed. Rin followed.

 

“I must ask your name as well,” Rin said from behind him, making Bilbo jump and almost drop yet another bottle of wine.

 

Really, the nerve of some people. Talking to him with deep, sultry voices like that.

 

“I’m Bilbo,” he said, examining the label of the bottle far too closely than was necessary so as to hide his blush.

 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bilbo,” Rin said. “Is that the wine you need?”

 

Bilbo swallowed. Since when did his throat become so dry? “Um. Yes. This is the one. I’ll need several bottles….”

 

Once they made their purchase, the two of them headed for the stables so Bilbo could hire a horse and cart. Rin carried the wine bottles, and Bilbo regretted agreeing to that because now he had nothing to do with his hands. The entire walk there, an awkward silence descended between them and Bilbo fiddled with his bracers. He had no idea what to say to Rin that wouldn’t make him sound like a nervous imbecile, and Rin didn’t seem too inclined to start up a conversation. Oh, what a day this was turning out to be!

 

“You seem…jittery,” Rin pointed out matter-of-factly, and Bilbo immediately felt compelled to contradict the observation. He puffed out his chest and took a steadying breath, carrying himself with a bit more grace than usual. Unfortunately, the tremors in his hands gave him away.

 

“It’s just…ah, I’m not used to so much excitement in one day,” he said, sparing a glance at Rin—he had to incline his head quite a bit, for Rin was at least a head taller than him, maybe a little more.

 

Rin looked thoughtful, then quirked a smile. “You must lead a very simple life, then, if this constitutes as excitement.”

 

Bilbo stopped dead in his tracks, digging his bare toes against the cobblestone street. “E-excuse me?” he sputtered indignantly.

 

At least Rin had the grace to look apologetic once more, once he realized his verbal slip.

 

“You know, you shouldn’t make judgments about someone you’ve just met on the street!” Bilbo scolded before Rin had a chance to speak, taking his wine bottles from Rin’s arms and marching right past him towards the stables. He would just hire a cart himself, and get back to Bag End before anything else unexpected and preposterous could happen to him today.

 

“I’m sorry!” Rin called out as he caught up to Bilbo, moving slightly ahead and walking backwards so they could speak face-to-face. “I didn’t mean what I said, I…” He trailed off when Bilbo stopped and gave him a pointed stare. “I apologize. I’ve never been terribly good with words.”

 

“I noticed,” Bilbo said, his tone still sharp.

 

“Please,” Rin said, his eyes bright and imploring. Oh, now that just wasn’t fair. “Forgive me for my hasty judgment.”

 

Bilbo pursed his lips and adjusted the wine bottles in his arms. He regarded Rin for a long while, and found that he couldn’t stay angry when the poor man looked so sincere in his regret for his words. “It’s all right,” he said, suddenly finding the ground more interesting than his new acquaintance. “I suppose…you weren’t far off the mark. I’m rarely permitted to even leave the house most days.”

 

“You too?” Rin asked, his voice surprised and…hopeful?

 

Well. Out of all the things Bilbo expected to hear, that definitely wasn’t it.

 

Rin didn’t seem to notice Bilbo’s gaping and continued, “Today’s the first in a long while I’ve been able to…well, I don’t get out much.”

 

Bilbo could definitely relate to that. “Me neither. There are many times I wish I could just walk away, and go—“

 

“—on some sort of adventure and leave everything behind?” Rin finished for him.

 

They both stared at each other before sharing bashful smiles. Rin silently held out his hands to take some of the wine bottles, which Bilbo relinquished gratefully. Together, they made their way to the stables to hire a cart. Rin paid for it as he’d said earlier, but Bilbo still fussed over it. He didn’t much like the idea of being in someone’s debt, and he pointed this out vehemently. Still, Rin refused to hear it and insisted on paying.

 

Not a half hour later, they were packing the last of Bilbo’s things into the cart for him to transport back to Bag End.

 

“Thank you so much for your help today,” Bilbo said as he shoved the last sack of potatoes into a free spot on the cart.

 

“Think nothing of it,” Rin replied easily, strapping the last of the boxes down. “It was…fun. A good change of pace.” He smiled at Bilbo, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile back.

 

“Most definitely.”

 

Rin helped him up on the seat of the cart—he was always too short to get up himself. How embarrassing. He took the reins of the horse and gave one last, parting smile. “I hope I see you again, Rin.”

 

“Likewise, Bilbo.” Rin backed away a bit and nodded his head. “Farewell for now.”

 

With that, Bilbo urged the horse forward. He was running so late—Lobelia was sure to flay him when he finally got back home. Bilbo glanced back one last time, and watched Rin disappear around the street corner with the tattooed fellow.

 

What a day, he thought, unable to erase the smile from his face.

 

* * *

 

“Thorin, are you _trying_ to give us all a heart attack?” Balin griped as he helped Thorin into his royal regalia, complete with fur-trimmed cloak and a princely crown atop his head. Thorin fidgeted the entire time, missing just his tunic and trousers. “We were all worried sick. This running off unexpectedly has got to stop, laddie.”

 

Thorin rolled his eyes and adjusted the clasp on his cloak. He’d been listening to his advisor’s lectures on propriety for his whole life, and as much as he loved Balin, it was starting to get old. “Balin, I was fine. Dwalin was with me.”

 

“Which worries me greatly,” Balin countered, gesturing for Thorin to lower his head. The prince did so, and Balin laid a silver crown bejeweled with sapphires and moonstone atop his dark, unruly mane. “Dwalin is your guard, but he knows better than to encourage your sneaking about.” Balin leveled a glare at his brother, who merely shrugged from where he stood off to the side.

 

“He’ll be wantin’ to sneak out more often now that he’s met a cute villager,” Dwalin quipped from the peanut gallery, snickering when Thorin turned bright red. Balin rolled his eyes and resisted throwing something at his meddlesome brother.

 

“But it’s so boring here most days,” Thorin sighed, willing his blush away. “I’m so tired of tending to royal duties day in and day out.”

 

Balin gave the prince a wry look and patted him on his armored shoulder. “It comes with the title, laddie. Now come along. Your father requests your presence.”

 

* * *

 

“You wanted to see me, father?”

 

Thráin looked up from the paperwork on his desk, smiling faintly at his eldest son. “Ah, yes. Thorin,” he greeted, rising from his chair and embracing Thorin. “Where have you been all day?”

 

“I was…discussing a possible trade agreement with the king of the Greenwood kingdom,” Thorin lied. “You know how King Thranduil can be.”

 

Thráin fixed him with a look that said he wasn’t convinced by a long shot, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he segued into his purpose for summoning Thorin to his chambers. “Thorin. I would like to speak with you about your grandfather.”

 

Thorin’s expression darkened at that. “Is he getting worse?” he asked gravely. The grim expression on his father’s face was answer enough.

 

“He’ll not last much longer,” Thráin said, rubbing a hand over his face. He sounded weary. It didn’t suit the prince regent at all. “He’s…well, he’s insisting that he at least wants to see one of his grandchildren married before he passes.”

 

If possible, Thorin’s expression darkened even further. “Meaning…?” he prompted when Thráin fell silent for a minute.

 

Thráin looked just as uncomfortable with this discussion as Thorin was feeling. Still, he pushed on. “Thrór wants you to get married and settle down, Thorin.”

 

“No,” Thorin said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn’t ready to be married—not at all. There was still so much of the world he wanted to see, so much to explore. He couldn’t do any of that if he was tethered to a spouse, confined to rule from behind the palace walls.

 

“Thorin, please,” Thráin said, his tone already exasperated. After all, this wasn’t the first time they’d talked about Thorin finding a partner and getting married. “This is your grandfather’s dying wish. I know it doesn’t appeal to you, but it’s time to grow up and accept your role as prince.”

 

“No,” Thorin repeated, this time with a bit more bite. “Grandfather said ‘one of his grandchildren.’ Why can’t you marry off Dís or Frerin? Why does it have to be _me_?”

 

“Because you are my eldest, and next in line for the throne after me.” Thráin stood tall, not allowing his son’s brutish attitude to sway him in the slightest. He hated having to put his foot down sometimes, but Thorin had duties to uphold. As his father and soon-to-be-king, Thráin had the wonderful job of enforcing that. “Thorin, you’ve got to learn that being a prince comes with certain obligations. You need to curb your wanderlust and _settle down_. No more wandering off when the urge strikes you.”

 

A tense silence followed as Thorin paced about the room, his jaw clenched like a vice to keep himself from yelling at his father. Thráin reached for a long roll of parchment on his desk, rolled it up, and held it out for his son to take. “We’re going to hold a ball, at which you will be required to find a partner to settle down with. I will accept no argument on this, Thorin.”

 

Giving the scroll a smoldering glare, Thorin scoffed and stormed out of the room. His heavy footfalls echoed from the corridor.

 

Heaving a sigh, Thráin pinched the bridge of his nose. Of all the traits for Thorin to have inherited from Thrór, it just _had_ to be stubbornness. “Balin!” he called towards the door.

 

On command, Balin stepped into the room with a bow. “Your Highness.” The elderly advisor stepped forward to take the scroll that Thráin was holding out to him.

 

“Send an announcement throughout the kingdom of Erebor. Let it be known that Thorin Oakenshield Durin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, is giving a ball.”

 

* * *

 

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins burst through the door of Bag End like a cyclone would through the wall of a barn, scaring Bilbo half to death and making him drop a bucket of sudsy water all over the floor. Her lip twisted in a snarl as she hopped over the wet mess in the entry way. “Otho! Lotho! I’ve grand news!” she called out into the house in her tinny, high-pitched voice as she made her way to the sitting room.

 

Bilbo slid around the floor on his hands and knees, trying to mop up the water as best as he could. Though for all he cared, Lobelia could slip on the slick wood and break her stupid neck. That would be preferable, he thought with a scowl. He heard the shuffling of feet, which could only mean Otho and Lotho making their appearance.

 

“Prince Thorin is holding a ball!” Lobelia shrieked from the other room, and Bilbo could swear he lost his hearing after that one. He dropped the soiled rags and sponges into the nearly empty bucket and meandered toward the sitting room, hovering so close to the wall that he could almost melt into it.

 

“All eligible lads and maidens are invited to attend!” Lobelia continued on to her mildly interested husband and son. At their disinterested looks, she smacked them both upside the head with the parchment in her hands. “Will you two listen?! Prince Thorin is _looking for a partner_ at this ball. As in a _partner for marriage_. Do you know what this means?!”

 

Bilbo’s sore ears perked up at that. Prince Thorin was getting married? All eligible _lads_ and maidens?

 

Lotho, clever lad that he was, stared at his mother with a gaping expression. He pointed to himself as he spoke. “So that means…he could possibly choose _me_?”

 

Now _that_ seemed to grab Otho’s attention. Lobelia shrieked again, and there went the rest of Bilbo’s hearing. The dreadful woman grabbed her son’s hands and twirled him around the room.

 

“You could marry into royalty, Lotho! We could be _royal_ by marriage, Otho!”

 

Bilbo let out a snort he’d meant to suppress, which killed any joy his aunt, uncle, and cousin previously had. All motion in the room stopped, and the three of them glared so hotly at him, he thought he’d spontaneously combust.

 

Now would be a perfect time to melt into the wall.

 

“And what is so funny, Bilbo?” Lobelia sniped, rounding on him and staring him down. “You think _you_ have a better chance at marrying Prince Thorin?”

 

Bilbo stayed silent, though his glare said more than enough.

 

“You know,” Lobelia began, approaching Bilbo like a predator would approach its prey. “After your mother and father died, Otho and I were kind enough to take you in and care for you until you came of age. Yet for all the kindness we’ve shown you, you dare mock us? You _dare_ mock my son, you ungrateful little whelp?!”

 

Lobelia struck Bilbo right across the face, the loud _smack_ echoing in the now quiet room. Bilbo flinched back, his hand flying up to his already reddened cheek. Anger burned brightly in his emerald eyes, and there were so many things— _so many things_ —he wanted to tell that old hag, but he bit his tongue.

 

He spun on his heel and ran to his father’s study, where he slammed the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

It was way past dusk when Bilbo wiped away the remainder of his tears from his puffy red eyes. He sat curled in his father’s armchair, bundled in his mother’s quilt with one of her books, a low-burning candle the only source of light in the otherwise dark room. The book was on his lap, opened to the same page he’d started on hours ago. He tried reading, but he was too upset to get past even a sentence without having to reread it ten times.

 

It was one of his mother’s favorite stories to read him as a child—thirteen dwarves trekking across parts unknown to reclaim their home that had been lost to a fierce and wrathful dragon. Bilbo craved adventure of some sort. Maybe not facing down a dragon, per se, but _anything_ would be better than his life at the moment. Even a little adventure, like what happened at the market today. Running into that handsome stranger….

 

Bilbo shook his head.

 

After Bungo and Belladonna’s passing, the Sackville-Baggineses invaded his home and took over his life. He hated all three of them, but he had nowhere else to go—and Lobelia could have full ownership of Bag End over Bilbo’s cold, dead body.

 

Which made sense, if he thought about it long enough. She’d been trying to slowly off him from the start so she could inherit everything he held dear. Starving him, working him to the bone. All of it was part of some grand evil scheme, he was sure of it. Her son may be an idiot, but Lobelia was not. Now that he was of age, Bilbo would have to die or move out in order for Lobelia to get her grubby hands on his home for good, according to the will of the late Bungo Baggins. At least if Lotho married Prince Thorin, the three of them would move into the palace and leave Bilbo in peace.

 

“Bilbo Baggins, you are being a paranoid imbecile,” he scolded himself, fishing his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing at his eyes.

 

Oh, how he missed his mother and father. He missed his mother’s scones and the smell of his father’s pipe weed. The calm and gentle support of his father and the spunky, daring encouragement of his mother. They always believed in him, always taught him to chase down his dreams and never give up.

 

So why should he give up a chance at a better life for himself?

 

There was still a week until the ball. Bilbo had enough time to make himself an acceptable outfit for such an occasion. And who knew, maybe he’d blow the boots off everyone there and woo Prince Thorin himself. He would never know unless he tried.

 

With a new resolve, Bilbo straightened himself up and closed the book in his lap. He glanced down at his handkerchief before bringing it to his lips for a brief, reverent kiss.

 

“Mother, father,” he whispered, “please give me strength.”

 

* * *

 

Thorin was disinterestedly overseeing the decorating committee in the ballroom when he was ambushed by his two exuberant siblings.

 

“Why the long face, brother?” Frerin asked, hanging off Thorin’s shoulder. “I’d give anything for grandfather to throw a ball just for me.”

 

“You can have this one, then,” Thorin countered. “I don’t want it.” And he didn’t. He tried so hard to appreciate the efforts of everyone in preparing for this event being held in his honor, but he couldn’t help but find all the pomp and splendor completely ridiculous. Oh, how he wished he could just run away from it all.

 

Dís flicked her eldest brother in the nose. “Don’t be like that, Thorin. Look how much work is going into this shindig. You could at least appreciate it a little bit.”

 

Thorin sighed and shrugged his brother off his shoulder. He strode away to another part of the ballroom to get away from them, but his siblings were persistent and followed him anyway.

 

“Come on,” Frerin tried again. “Can we at least get a half-smile out of you?”

 

Thorin grimaced.

 

“Close enough,” the blond brother conceded. Dís just shook her head.

 

“Why are you so against this, Thorin? I mean, I know you’re stubborn and all, but must you make yourself miserable with your hard-headedness?”

 

Well, Dís sure knew how to cut him down to size.

 

Thorin feigned interest in the various flower arches going on display. Stems were woven together in an intricate design, petals of every colour adding a bit of life to the cold, ornate marble of the ballroom. “I hate that I’m being forced into marriage,” he said at length, finally facing his two siblings. “I’m not ready for it.”

 

“Have you tried talking to grandfather about it?” the princess suggested.

 

Thorin gave her a pointed look. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

 

“All right, yes, point taken. But still…getting married can’t be that bad, can it?”

 

“Yes,” Thorin said. He didn’t care to elaborate.

 

It was Frerin’s turn to try a different tactic. “Well, at least you have over five hundred partners to choose from. Surely you’ll find someone suitable.” At that suggestion, Thorin’s expression turned sour as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. “Unless…”

 

Dís and Frerin stared at their older brother, and his cheeks steadily grew pinker before he scoffed and turned away.

 

Frerin lit up like a child at Yule. “No way…no _way_. Thorin! I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on us!”

 

Thorin remained as tight-lipped as ever, and suddenly found the steel tips of his boots very interesting.

 

Dis yanked on one of Thorin’s braids to get his attention. “So you _have_ met someone.”

 

“N-no,” he said, but the denial didn’t even sound convincing to his own ears. “Well…y—no. I haven’t, I…oh, blast it all…”

 

The two younger siblings double-teamed it and hauled Thorin out of the ballroom and down one of the side corridors. They crowded him against the wall, their combined presence both excited and demanding.

 

“So, who is it?!” Dís and Frerin exclaimed at the same time.

 

“Just…someone I ran into at the market last week,” Thorin confessed, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I mean that literally—we collided, and I made him drop his wine bottles.”

 

Both of his siblings burst into peals of laughter, hanging off one another as they doubled over with giggles. He didn’t know which was worse—this horrid display of mirth at his expense, or having to deal with Dwalin’s underhanded comments of a less _innocent_ nature.

 

“Leave it to Thorin to be a complete klutz!” Frerin howled.

 

Dis wiped a few tears from her eyes. “That is absolutely priceless.”

 

Thorin, who really was at the end of his patience this far into ball preparations, scoffed at his brother and sister and stormed back to the ballroom. He had other things to see to.

 

Dís and Frerin finally recovered from their laugh attack a few minutes later, both of them leaning against the wall where they had previously crowded their brother.

 

“I just hope for Thorin’s sake that his little crush attends the ball,” Dís said finally, adopting a serious tone of voice. “I know I’d hate to be in his position right now.”

 

“Thank Mahal we’re younger, right?” Frerin said wryly. Dís couldn’t fight down a laugh.

 

* * *

 

“Stand up straight, or this won’t button properly,” Bilbo instructed his cousin. When Lotho sucked in a breath and adjusted his posture, Bilbo set to work on buttoning his waistcoat.

 

Lotho was decked out in his finest clothing—dark tailored trousers, crisp white shirt, and an embroidered waistcoat of copper and scarlet. The colour complimented his hair, brown with red undertones. Bilbo’s stomach gave a lurch. He’d be getting ready in his own handmade garments now, too, if Lobelia hadn’t forbidden Bilbo from going to the ball on the threat of kicking him out and taking over the deed to Bag End. So here he was, helping his cousin get ready for the ball that he wasn’t allowed to attend.

 

Once he fastened the last button, Bilbo stood and dusted off Lotho’s shoulders. He made some small adjustments to the fit of the garments, but all in all, Lotho was ready to go. He gave his cousin a half-approving smile and backed away.

 

“Do you think Prince Thorin will notice me?” Lotho asked, twisting back and forth to get a good look at his outfit.

 

Bilbo wanted to say no. He wanted to be mean and tell Lotho that he didn’t stand a chance at catching the prince’s attention for even a second. But he just didn’t have it in him. Instead, he shrugged and said, “You’ve got as good of a chance as anyone.”

 

Lotho was silent for a moment before he fixed Bilbo with a serious look. “I wish you were coming.”

 

Bilbo felt his world tilt sideways a bit. _What_ , exactly, had just come out of his loathsome cousin’s mouth? “I—beg your pardon?” he managed to choke out.

 

“Mum always yells at me whenever I do something even remotely wrong. Da doesn’t care enough to say _anything_ most of the time. But you, Bilbo…” Lotho trailed off, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well, you’re like Auntie Bella and Uncle Bungo. You encourage people. And…I wish you could be there to encourage me tonight.”

 

Forget tilting. Bilbo’s world just turned completely upside down at that admission. He feared that if he didn’t sit down soon, he’d pass out.

 

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he said, “Well, I…I have faith in you, Lotho. You’ll be great.”

 

Lotho shared a smile with his cousin before Lobelia called out for him. He looked like he wanted to give Bilbo a hug, but decided against it at the last second. With a parting smile, Lotho left the room.

 

Bilbo heard the front door close, and his knees buckled beneath him. Oh, how he wanted to go to the ball.

 

After allowing himself a minute of self-pity and not a tick more, he sniffed back his unshed tears and made his way to the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo was just sitting down with a steaming cup of tea and a book when he heard a knock at the door.

 

“Who on earth could that be?” he wondered aloud, abandoning his tea and book on the kitchen table to go answer the door. He was barely out of the kitchen when whoever it was knocked again, louder and more insistent than before. “I’m coming already!” Bilbo shouted, even though he probably wouldn’t be heard. Really, did no one have patience anymore?

 

And anyway, who would be crazy enough to come knocking tonight of all nights? Surely everyone in the entire kingdom would be at the ball tonight and therefore unable to receive guests.

 

Well, everyone except Bilbo and whomever was knocking at his door, apparently.

 

There was more knocking—though at this point it was more like pounding—and Bilbo wrenched open the door, ready to lecture the stranger on the proper etiquette for knocking on someone’s door at such a late hour.

 

And then he froze.

 

There was a chuckle from outside. “Oh, Bilbo Baggins, my dear boy. It certainly has been an age.”

 

“…Gandalf?!”

 

“The one and only,” the old man said, leaning on his staff and regarding Bilbo with a fond look. Moments later, he found himself with an armful of Bilbo, and he chuckled and held him close. His wizened smile started to fade when he noticed Bilbo shaking, and felt small hands grasping at his robes. “Bilbo?”

 

The younger male sniffled and pulled back from his old friend, bowing his head and wiping at his tears. He’d been doing an awful lot of crying lately. How shameful. “S-sorry….” He sniffled again and looked up at Gandalf, eyes still red and puffy. “I just…it’s really great to see you.”

 

Gandalf had been a dear friend of Belladonna, and the last time Bilbo had seen the wizard was when his parents passed away. The old man had shown up for the funeral, and stuck around for several weeks to look after a young Bilbo. He always had a habit of appearing just when he was most needed, and tonight seemed to be no different.

 

Bilbo then seemed to remember his manners and tried to shake off his sadness as best as he could. “W-would you like to come in? I just brewed some tea….”

 

Gandalf pondered the invitation for a moment before shaking his head, his beard swooshing from side to side. “I must decline, I’m afraid. I only had a few minutes’ time to stop by. I’m expected at the palace soon.” He nodded his head toward a tarp-covered cart sitting alongside the road in front of Bilbo’s house, the tip of his grey hat pointing right at it.

 

When Bilbo saw what the wizard was gesturing to, his eyes lit up and a small smile wiped away most of his frown from before. “You’re doing a fireworks show tonight?”

 

“Mmm,” Gandalf hummed in confirmation. “You’d best get dressed and get to the ball post-haste, else you’ll miss it.”

 

At that, Bilbo’s face fell again. He didn’t want to be reminded of his current misfortune. “I…I’m not going.”

 

Gandalf’s bushy brows raised almost as high as his hairline, completely hidden by the brim of his large hat. “What on earth do you mean you’re not going?”

 

Sighing, Bilbo leaned against the doorframe and stared past Gandalf at the twilight sky. It wasn’t quite black yet, and the stars were just starting to come out. “It’s a long story, and I’m afraid I’ll make you even later if I share it with you.”

 

Gandalf scoffed and strode into the house with a surprised Bilbo at his heels. “A wizard is never late. He arrives precisely when he means to. Now, tell me what is going on, Bilbo. The ball can wait.”

 

So Bilbo prepared a cup of tea for Gandalf and a fresh one for himself. They sat at the kitchen table with their tea and Gandalf with his pipe and Bilbo explained everything—from the horror that was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins to sharing ownership of Bag End with the dreadful woman, according to his father’s will. Even though Bilbo was of age now, it had been stated in Bungo’s will that he and Lobelia would co-own Bag End until one of them either moved away or died, whichever came first. He told Gandalf of Lobelia holding the deed over his head and forbidding him from going to the ball, else he’d be kicked out and lose ownership of his home.

 

Gandalf blew out a frustrated breath of smoke and leaned back in his chair. “Well. That is quite the dilemma. Something bothers me about that, though.” He took a sip of his tea and stared hard at Bilbo, who took a long gulp of his own beverage. “Are you sure your father’s will states such stipulations? That doesn’t sound like something ol’ Bungo would have done.”

 

Bilbo averted his gaze. He traced the grain of the wooden tabletop with his index finger. “Lobelia has a copy of his will. She showed it to me, and it indeed specifies such,” he muttered, his voice cracked and heartbroken.

 

A silence fell between them, during which Bilbo finished his tea and took his empty mug to the sink.

 

Exhaling his smoke in little dancing rings, Gandalf said, “That is something I will look into. In the meantime, you’d best go get ready for the ball.”

 

Whipping his head around so fast he may have given himself whiplash, Bilbo gaped at Gandalf. “Did you not hear a word I’ve said to you? Lobelia will kick me out of I go to the ball! I’ll _lose my home_ , Gandalf!”

 

Then that damn wizard, clearly not giving a single fig about Bilbo’s dire situation, smiled mischievously with his pipe between his lips. “Then we’ll have to make sure you don’t get caught.”

 

* * *

 

It was barely five minutes in and Thorin was already sick of the ball.

 

He hated having to wear his full princely attire. It was all dark blues, blacks, and silvers to match his ridiculous crown. Fur adorned his shoulders, detailed vambraces hugged his forearms, and really, was the cloak necessary? Thorin wanted nothing more than to shuck off the majority of his clothing until he was down to just a tunic and trousers, so that he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb even amongst all the finery of the guests.

 

The sheer number of people in attendance was overwhelming. At the commencement of the festivities and the presenting of the royal siblings, Thorin almost fainted at the multitude of bodies occupying the ballroom. How on earth was he supposed to find someone to marry with so many people?!

 

Next to him, Frerin let out a low whistle that made the beads in his blond moustache sway. “Look at all these people,” he pointed out. “You must be some kind of catch, brother. Personally, I don’t see it.”

 

From his other side, he could hear Dís snickering from behind her fan.

 

“Shut it,” Thorin grit out, his teeth clenched. He really wasn’t looking forward to the dancing bit. Not at all. And it wasn’t that Thorin was a bad dancer—he just didn’t want to fathom dancing with every attendee tonight. The ball would never end. The only bonus was that he’d get to avoid his siblings picking on him for the majority of the night.

 

Thráin presided over the gathering, for Thrór was too ill to show up in person. Once the formalities ceased, he signaled for the orchestra to start up. He glanced to his eldest son, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture toward the dance floor. Thorin nodded and stepped into the ballroom proper, in the very middle of the dance floor. He found it hard not to wince at the already long line of men and women waiting to dance with him.

 

His feet were going to hate him after tonight.

 

* * *

 

Darkness had settled in, blanketing the sky in velvety blackness. The stars twinkled brightly above them, and if Bilbo imagined hard enough, he could almost see his parents’ smiling faces in the myriad of lights in the sky. Gandalf sat next to him on the cart, his horses’ reins in one hand and pipe in the other. He blew his smoke into many different shapes as they rode to the palace together, making Bilbo smile and giggle on more than one occasion.

 

When the palace came into view, though, the nerves started to settle in. His anxiety manifested through his hands; his small fingers idly toyed with the silver beads braided into his hair. Bilbo felt a heavy weight drop into his stomach and his heart was racing. He had to be careful tonight—if Lobelia saw as much as a hair of him at the ball, he would lose everything. But Gandalf had done a splendid job at making Bilbo unrecognizable from a distance, helping him with his hair and clothing to the best of his ability, and Bilbo was eternally grateful for that. He still couldn’t completely stamp out the fear roiling in his gut, but he swallowed it down as well as he could and held his chin high. He could do this. As long as he kept an eye out for his family and avoided getting too close to them, he would be fine.

 

He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, handling it with all the tenderness in the world. He clutched it tightly in silent prayer before stowing it back in his pocket.

 

Gandalf pulled both horses and cart to a stop in front of the main gates where two guards greeted them. They granted them passage, and sooner than he knew it, Bilbo found himself standing at the foot of a grand staircase leading up into the palace.

 

He’d be surprised if he got through the evening without fainting.

 

“Bilbo.”

 

Bilbo turned to face Gandalf, who stood nonchalantly next to his cart of fireworks. “Remember, my dear boy, you must be out of here at midnight. That’s when the fireworks show will start, which should provide enough of a distraction for you to slip away unnoticed. One of my horses will be available to you then.”

 

A blinding smile lit up Bilbo’s entire face. “Thank you, Gandalf. You’re the absolute best.”

 

The old man’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at Bilbo in kind. “I merely nudged you along. You’re here tonight because you want to be.”

 

And with those parting words, Gandalf tended to his fireworks. Bilbo sucked in a deep breath and ascended the stairs into the palace.

 

* * *

 

All the different waltzes blended together in his head. The colours around the room all blurred into a swirling mess. He could barely remember any of the people he’d danced with—all their faces started to look the same after a while. He excused himself from his current partner, a shy lad with dark curly hair, and made a beeline for the refreshments. He needed a drink.

 

There was very little keeping him from just ditching this whole affair. The only reason he elected to stay was to avoid the wrath of his father, and by extension his grandfather. He was getting tired, and he had so many more people to dance with still. Thorin briefly contemplated sacrificing Frerin to the masses. At least his younger brother was much more approachable and less gruff than he was himself. He quashed the thought, though, because doing so would require him to seek out his siblings and he wasn’t sure he could handle their teasing at the moment.

 

Shaking his head, Thorin raised his glass to take another drink.

 

The glass never made it to his lips.

 

His gaze was frozen on the grand staircase leading into the ballroom—more specifically on the person currently descending the stairs.

 

No. It…it _couldn’t_ be.

 

“Bilbo?”

 

As soon as the name left his mouth Thorin was on his way to the stairs as fast as his aching legs could carry him, leaving his drink behind and forgotten. He intercepted Bilbo just as he reached the foot of the stairs and stopped the smaller man in his tracks.

 

“Bilbo…” he breathed. Apparently his brain was incapable of forming any other words besides Bilbo’s name. He looked stunning tonight—his waistcoat of sky blue was embroidered with painstaking detail, shapes of leaves and flowers and trees weaving through the fabric in gleaming silver thread. His chestnut curls framed his lovely face, and small braids with silver beaded clasps were woven throughout. The beads caught the light just right, as if Bilbo had the stars of the night sky in his hair. His whole ensemble was bright and pure in contrast to Thorin’s much darker attire. And of course those emerald eyes. Thorin could never forget those eyes.

 

Those eyes were currently blown wide and locked on his face.

 

“Rin?!”

 

Bilbo’s face turned as red as a tomato and Thorin couldn’t keep himself from smiling. The shock of the moment quickly wore off when Bilbo shook his head and bowed low, as one was supposed to do when greeting royalty.

 

“How do you do, Your Highness?” he asked. Thorin could hear a slight trembling in his voice.

 

The prince reached forward, hooking his finger under Bilbo’s chin and lifting his head. Surprise was still evident in his expression, but it was mixed with shyness and…fear? Oh, now that just wouldn’t do. Thorin’s smile grew wider as he dropped his hand from Bilbo’s chin and extended it to him, palm up and inviting. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

 

* * *

 

It all happened so fast, Bilbo could barely keep up. Here he was, heading into the ballroom completely unnoticed by the other guests when suddenly Prince Thorin himself greeted him at the bottom of the stairs.

 

Bilbo would have been flattered, but once he realized that Prince Thorin was the very same man he had literally run into at the market last week, he couldn’t keep the shock at bay. He…he had spent that whole afternoon with the _prince_?! Mild horror filled his mind as he remembered his embarrassing display with the wine bottles. Hell, he had even _scolded_ Thorin for being rude a number of times, and now he was being asked to _dance_.

 

With the prince.

 

Prince Thorin.

 

 

Not Rin, but _Tho_ rin.

 

Bilbo was done for.

 

“O-of course, Your Highness,” he acquiesced, shyly taking the prince’s hand. Thorin’s hand was warm and soft and huge, completely dwarfing his own smaller hand. His heart skipped a beat when Thorin tightened his grip around Bilbo’s fingers.

 

And then he was being whisked away onto the dance floor in the arms of a prince.

 

* * *

 

“Well, bless my beard,” Dwalin said through a mouthful of honey cakes.

 

Balin rolled his eyes at his brother, not even bothering to correct his manners at this point. Honestly, talking with his mouth full in the presence of royalty and almost the entirety of Erebor? It was as if Dwalin had been raised in the stables with the horses.

 

“What is it?” he asked instead, trying his best to ignore the crumbs falling out of Dwalin’s mouth.

 

The tattooed man swallowed and took another bite of his delicious pastry. “Thorin’s crush decided to show.”

 

Dwalin’s bad manners briefly forgotten, Balin turned his attention to the dance floor in light of this news. His old eyes didn’t betray him. There Thorin was, whirling around the ballroom with a way-too-noticeable spring in his step and a smaller man in his arms. Balin couldn’t ever remember seeing his prince so enthusiastic about another person before, but the evidence was right in front of his face…and the faces of almost the entire kingdom. All the other dancers halted their movements, almost every pair of eyes in the room trained on Thorin and his dance partner.

 

Even Thráin was watching his eldest son, dumbstruck at this turn of events.

 

Well, Balin thought, this night just became a lot more interesting.

 

* * *

 

“Who on earth is that?” Lobelia sneered from the refreshments table. She was watching the dance with disgust, with Otho bored on her right and Lotho staring into his drink on her left. “He’s hogging the prince all to himself, the greedy sod.”

 

Otho hummed in agreement, clearly more interested in the food than his wife’s complaints.

 

Lobelia nudged her son so hard, he almost spilled his punch all over his pristine outfit. “Lotho, see if you can find out who that is. And when you can, sweep in and steal the prince for another dance. You hear me?”

 

Resigned, and perhaps a little frightened, Lotho nodded. “Yes, Mum.”

 

One dance with the prince wasn’t enough. He had to dance with him again—he _had_ to, this mysterious stranger be damned.

 

* * *

 

“You keep staring at your feet,” Thorin noted as he tugged Bilbo a bit closer to him.

 

Bilbo swallowed and deliberately looked back up at Thorin, who was smiling the most absurd smile down at him. Truthfully, he hated wearing shoes. Most of the time he spent wandering around barefoot, but of course who would attend a royal ball without shoes of some kind? Also, it was very hard to concentrate on dancing when the prince was looking so unabashedly happy at him like that. It was a wonder Bilbo could move his feet at all.

 

“I…well, my feet are larger than average and not very good for dancing,” he said, a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks.

 

Thorin chuckled. “Just follow my lead. You’ll be fine.” With that assurance, he spun Bilbo outwards before pulling him back in close, his hand a warm, comforting weight against the small of Bilbo’s back.

 

“You’ll be lucky if I haven’t stepped all over your poor feet before the end of the night.”

 

“I’m sure I can manage if you do.”

 

Putting aside his doubt, Bilbo sucked in a deep breath and did as Thorin bade him. He followed the prince’s steps carefully, trying to avoid any unfortunate missteps. It’d be easier if there were other people actually dancing, so that he had a crowd to hide behind if he happened to make an error.

 

“We’re the only ones dancing, you know,” Bilbo remarked, his nervousness taking hold and causing him to shrink a little bit. It was more than a little unsettling, though, to be under the stare of almost everyone in the room. He hadn’t seen the Sackville-Bagginses yet, which was a good sign. He hoped it would stay like that for the rest of the evening.

 

Eventually his attention returned to Thorin, who was still watching him with those intensely _blue_ eyes of his. “I haven’t noticed,” the prince admitted, slowing their pace to match the orchestra’s tempo. “As soon as you entered the room, I’d forgotten there was anyone else here.”

 

Ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks, Bilbo snorted. “Shame you’re not always this charming. It might have helped you out when you broke all my wine bottles,” he snarked. His comment made Thorin smile even wider.

 

“If I remember correctly, it was _you_ who ran into _me_ ,” the prince teased.

 

“Details, details.” Bilbo smiled, marveling at how truly happy he felt. It was almost as if there was no ball, no formalities needed, no appearances to be kept up. He wasn’t Bilbo the estranged orphan, and he wasn’t dancing at a royal gathering with Prince Thorin Oakenshield Durin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. Bilbo was just Bilbo and Thorin was just Thorin, the two of them trading dialogue easily as if they’d known each other for years.

 

Thorin spun him out one last time. As the song came to an end, he twirled back into the taller man. Bilbo’s back was to Thorin’s chest and he could feel a strong, quick heartbeat there to match his own. They shared the same breath, Bilbo’s chest rising and falling in time with Thorin’s. They held their positions, both lost in the moment and each other’s eyes.

 

An erupting cheer from their captive audience snapped them both back to reality. Bilbo flushed all the way down to his chest at the attention. It was a little overwhelming. Turning around to face Thorin, he gave a polite bow in thanks for the dance. The prince returned the gesture.

 

The others took that as a sign to resume their own dances. The orchestra kicked up another song, and soon countless people were twirling around the prince and his dance partner who still stood in the middle of the floor.

 

“I think I need a drink,” Bilbo said a bit breathlessly. His throat had gone completely dry.

 

“Allow me to accompany you.” Thorin offered his arm to Bilbo. Smiling, Bilbo looped his arm through Thorin’s and they made their way to the refreshments.

 

* * *

 

Siblings really were nuisances, Thorin decided, downing half of his drink in one go. He and Bilbo had barely reached the food tables when they were accosted by his ever meddlesome brother and sister.

 

Poor Bilbo was looking quite overwhelmed by the presence of the two younger Durins, but he handled them gracefully enough. He had a quick enough wit to keep up with Dís and Frerin’s endless questions and teasing, which Thorin was quite impressed with.

 

“You know, my brother is completely smitten with you,” Dís told Bilbo, making Thorin choke on the remainder of his drink. Frerin good-naturedly clapped him on the back as he coughed and spluttered. “Are you sure you don’t have him under some kind of spell?”

 

To which Bilbo smiled sweetly and replied, “Oh, you know, there are perks to befriending a wizard like Gandalf the Grey.”

 

Dís giggled and nudged Thorin, who was just composing himself from his drink mishap. “I like him, Thorin.”

 

“He’s a keeper,” Frerin agreed with a grin that looked both excited and mischievous.

 

“May I interrupt?”

 

Four heads turned towards the source of the new voice. Prince Regent Thráin stood behind his eldest son, smiling at his children before staying his gaze on Bilbo, who’d stiffened like a board at his presence. Thorin stiffened as well, a lead weight dropping into his gut. As if his siblings weren’t meddlesome enough…

 

“Father,” Thorin greeted with a nod. Dís and Frerin did the same.

 

Bilbo, however, flushed and fell into a deep bow. “Your Highness,” he said to the floor.

 

Thráin let out an amused chuckle and shook his head. “Rise, my boy. No need to bow that deeply.” Bilbo complied, though his cheeks retained their ruddy colouring and he still looked meek and nervous in the presence of so much royalty. “I am Prince Regent Thráin Durin, son of Thrór.” He held out a hand, which Bilbo stared at before hesitantly accepting the handshake.

 

“Bilbo Baggins, Your Highness,” Bilbo introduced himself with another, less drastic bow. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Thráin replied politely, shaking Bilbo’s hand. However, he tightened his grip when Bilbo tried to pull away. “Might I have the honor of this next dance?”

 

Thorin blanched, whereas Bilbo flushed even deeper than before.

 

“O-of course, Your Highness,” Bilbo answered dutifully.

 

Without further ado, Thráin swept Thorin’s dance partner off to the dance floor and left all three siblings speechless for several moments.

 

“You…you don’t think Father’s going to try and scare him off, do you?” Frerin asked tentatively before shoving an entire cream puff in his mouth.

 

Dís shook her head, snapping her fan shut. “He couldn’t be. The entire reason we’re having this ball is so Thorin can find a spouse. Father wouldn’t try to ruin that. Right, Thorin?”

 

Both of his siblings awaited his answer, but Thorin was finding it difficult to wedge the words from his throat. Dís was right— Thráin wouldn’t try scaring off the _one_ possible suitor Thorin had all evening when he was so insistent on this blasted event in the first place. But…Thorin knew his father. He was going to put Bilbo through the ropes, to test his worth and make certain that he measured up to the standards of wedding into the royal family.

 

Bilbo was perfect. There was no one more worthy than him to be the Prince Consort, of that Thorin was certain.

 

He still couldn’t help but fear what his father would say to the poor young man.

 

He needed another drink.

 

* * *

 

Curious eyes followed the movements of Thráin and Bilbo around the dance floor. Clearly, no one had expected the Prince Regent himself to appear on the dance floor, least of all with some commoner like Bilbo Baggins.

 

Not that he looked very common tonight, as Thráin had pointed out with a compliment to his outfit. Bilbo had blushed and admitted he stitched the waistcoat himself in the week leading up to the ball. Thráin seemed impressed, if the single raised eyebrow was anything to go by.

 

There wasn’t much talking after that. Bilbo tried his hardest to hide his abysmal dancing skills, and so far managed not to trip or step on the prince regent’s feet. He was getting nervous, though—well, not that he hadn’t been nervous during this whole number—and he kept hoping the song would end soon so that he could rejoin with Thorin.

 

“I’ve never seen my son look at anyone the way he looks at you,” Thráin said at length.

 

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he almost tripped right then. He kept his composure well enough, and when Thráin didn’t elaborate, he stuttered out, “O-oh?”

 

The older man hummed in affirmation. “You have him bewitched, Bilbo Baggins. Thorin must see something special in you, though I haven’t quite figured it out for myself yet.” He looked thoughtful, studying Bilbo’s face as if it somehow held all the answers.

 

Bilbo swallowed hard and averted Thráin’s gaze. “I am nothing special,” he admitted in a self-depreciating tone. And he wasn’t, really. He was just Bilbo Baggins, orphaned child of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, with not much to his name that hadn’t been taken by the Sackville-Bagginses, including his own home. There was no way he could measure up to a prince. “But I do like your son…even if he is an ill-mannered clot sometimes,” he commented, snapping his mouth shut upon realizing how sassy he sounded just then.

 

Thráin just chuckled. “That he is. Surely he doesn’t get it from my side of the family.”

 

At that, Bilbo couldn’t help but giggle. His nervousness began to ebb away from the light humor that took the place of the awkward atmosphere. “Nevertheless, he is a good person and I’m honored to be acquainted with him.” Though he’d like to be more than merely acquainted with him, Bilbo had learned after years of living with Lobelia to never get his hopes up for anything.

 

Something in Thráin’s expression shifted—he almost looked _fondly_ upon Bilbo, his face softening as he fell quiet. Bilbo, unsure of what else to say, or if anything else could be said at this point, just smiled up at Thráin and followed his steps.

 

When the orchestra trilled the last few notes of the song, the pair slowed to a stop and Thráin took a step back from Bilbo. He regarded him thoughtfully before saying, “You have my blessing, Master Baggins.” He then gave a slight bow of his head, which Bilbo returned in kind. “Thank you for the dance.”

 

Bilbo watched Thráin leave the dance floor, feeling for all the world like he was going to pass out. By the time the orchestra started up their next song, Bilbo was already running outside to the gardens.

 

* * *

 

When Thorin saw Bilbo dash for the exit, he had every instinct to chase after him. His blood ran cold with dread. What had his father said to Bilbo?

 

As Thráin returned from the dance floor, Thorin cut him off before he could make it back to the throne.

 

“What did you say to him?” he demanded with a glare.

 

Thráin looked affronted and glared right back at his eldest son. “I said nothing untoward. All I told him was that I give him my blessing.”

 

Thorin forgot he was supposed to be glaring at his father, shocked as he was at what he’d just heard. “W-what?” he asked eloquently, eyes wide and jaw in danger of hitting the floor.

 

The prince regent rolled his eyes. Honestly, his son could be so dense sometimes. “I approve of him, Thorin. He seems to be a good match for you.”

 

“I…” Thorin’s mouth had gone dry. He still wasn’t sure what he was hearing. “You mean that?”

 

Giving his son a pat on the shoulder, Thráin smiled and nodded. “I do. Now, go after him. You mustn’t let him get away.” And then he winked. _Winked_. Thráin never winked.

 

Then again, Thorin never thought he’d find a potential spouse tonight either. It looked like one impossible thing after another could happen tonight.

 

With a parting nod, Thorin practically flew across the ballroom to the doors leading to the gardens.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo hugged his legs closer, burying his face in his knees. The stone bench he found wasn’t comfortable for curling up with anxiety, but it would have to do. He’d removed his shoes, uncomfortable as they were, and his toes curled over the edge of the stone seat. He sucked in deep breaths to calm himself, to settle his heartbeat to a steady thump rather than a quick staccato rhythm against his ribcage.

 

He couldn’t do this. He _couldn’t_. Prince Regent Thráin _gave him his blessing_. Him. Bilbo Baggins. Commoner Bilbo Baggins. A veritable nobody.

 

Prince Thorin saw something special in him….

 

And for all the world, Bilbo couldn’t _imagine_ what Thorin saw in him.

 

He wanted to run. Run far away, maybe to Rivendell. His mother was fond of Rivendell—was even friends with the lord there once upon a time. He could go home, pack his minimal things, and be out of there before the Sackville-Bagginses even returned home for the night. Sure, he might not have a home to return to, but at least he would be away from… _this_.

 

“Bilbo?”

 

The addressed man startled, his head shooting up.

 

Thorin stood before him, wearing an expression of deep concern.

 

“Bilbo?” Thorin tried again, falling to his knees before him. “What’s the matter?”

 

Shaking his head, Bilbo wrenched his eyes shut. “Nothing. It…it’s nothing. I just…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, trying to force the words out. But they wouldn’t come.

 

When he felt a large, warm hand cup his cheek, Bilbo’s eyes flew open. Thorin was suddenly very close. Bilbo could see every vein of blue in the prince’s irises, even through the blur of tears clouding his vision.

 

Wait, tears?

 

Since when had he been crying?

 

Bilbo found it hard to keep from leaning into Thorin’s touch. How easy it would be to incline his head just slightly against the warm, steady presence of the hand on his cheek. Tenderly, Thorin’s thumb wiped at the tear tracks trailing down Bilbo’s face.

 

“Did my father say something to upset you?” Thorin asked, slowly dropping his hand from Bilbo’s cheek. Bilbo instantly missed the warmth.

 

He shook his head. “No, no. He was wonderful,” he insisted. Because really, Thráin had neither said nor done anything to deliberately hurt Bilbo. But…all of his confidence from earlier in the evening had diminished. All that easy banter and playfulness was on the back burner, the reality of the situation coming to the forefront of his mind. They were much more than two people. They…they were from completely different worlds.

 

For the Valar’s sake, Bilbo was a _nobody._ And Thorin was a _prince_. It would never work.

 

And the tears started anew.

 

“Bilbo…” Thorin’s voice was soft, quiet. The gentleness of the tenor tore Bilbo’s frantic heart in two. “Please tell me what’s wrong?”

 

This was ridiculous. A prince shouldn’t have to kneel before anyone, and yet here Thorin was, on his knees before Bilbo and asking after his wellbeing. Was this really happening? Or had he been so upset with not attending the ball that he’d gone and hallucinated this whole evening?

 

The weight of Thorin’s hand on his knee brought him back to reality and was all the proof he needed that, yes, this _was_ happening. It wasn’t one of his impossible, farfetched dreams conjured up by his overactive imagination.

 

“Don’t you understand, Thorin?” Bilbo said, releasing his legs and allowing them to slide off the bench. Thorin’s hand still rested on his knee. “This…you and I…we could never work.”

 

At that admission, Thorin looked at Bilbo in shock. “What…? Why?”

 

“Because you’re a prince! And I’m…I’m…” Bilbo hiccupped, biting back the new tears that threatened to fall. “I’m just a commoner, an orphan with no claim to anything save my father’s old armchair and my mother’s books. I don’t even have a home of my own! There’s nothing I can provide you that you don’t already have!”

 

Thorin vigorously shook his head in contest to that statement. “No. You’re wrong.” In a bold move, Thorin took both of Bilbo’s hands in his to show the smaller man how serious he was right now. “Bilbo, you’ve offered me much more than you realize. You share my want for adventure, you understand me. I can _talk_ to you, Bilbo, not as a prince but as a _person_. With you, I’m not Prince Thorin Oakenshield Durin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. I’m just _Thorin_. And I much prefer it that way.”

 

Bilbo regarded Thorin with wide eyes, brimming with tears that threatened to fall at any second.

 

Much to his surprise, Thorin smiled. It was a brilliant smile that broke through the gloom hanging over them. “Besides, Dís and Frerin like you. That must count for something.”

 

Because he couldn’t help it, Bilbo let out a watery giggle. “They’re lovely,” he assured the prince as he sniffed back his tears.

 

“As far as siblings go, I suppose,” Thorin joked. He ran his thumbs across Bilbo’s knuckles, causing the smaller man to shiver. “I can only hope your family will like me too.”

 

Bilbo snorted. “You’re a prince. Of course they’d like you.” He deliberately left out how angry Lobelia would be that it was he, not her dear Lotho, that had captured the prince’s attentions…and his heart. A smile took hold of his lips, and he let out a breathless laugh. “I know my mother would have loved you. She had the same love for adventuring and traveling.”

 

Thorin brought Bilbo’s hands up to his mouth, kissing each one softly. “When we’re married, I promise that we’ll go traveling together. We’ll see new lands and visit other kingdoms and wander to our hearts’ content.”

 

Marriage. Wasn’t that the kicker. “I would like that,” Bilbo said, giving Thorin’s hands a squeeze.

 

Letting go of Bilbo’s hands, Thorin reached up and cupped his flushed cheeks once more. With his thumbs, he wiped the last of Bilbo’s tears away. “How is it possible…that I’ve fallen in love with you in such a short time?” he asked, letting his fingers thread into Bilbo’s curls and touch the delicate braids and beads within. He leaned up, blue eyes bright and boring into Bilbo’s soul.

 

“I don’t know,” Bilbo answered honestly as he leaned down just a bit. “I find myself in the same predicament, Thorin.”

 

Smiling, Thorin closed the gap between them and joined their lips together. Bilbo responded immediately, bringing his hands up to Thorin’s face and caressing his cheeks with his fingertips. It was like any fairy tale kiss should be, sweet and magical and full of love and devotion.

 

It was everything Bilbo wanted, and more.

 

* * *

 

Ducking behind a row of shrubbery, Lotho hid his face in his hands. He had hoped beyond hope that Prince Thorin would like him, would be drawn to him. But it was Bilbo whom Thorin wanted. It was Bilbo whom Thorin fell in love with tonight. It was Bilbo who gained the favor of not only the prince, but the entire royal family in the span of a couple hours.

 

Bilbo, who was supposed to be back at Bag End and not at the ball.

 

He had to find his mother.

 

* * *

 

Thorin drew back from the kiss, unable to keep the smile off his face or his head beneath the clouds. He was so incredibly _happy_ in this moment, being here with Bilbo and being in love with the wonderful man in front of him. Thorin didn’t care where Bilbo came from, what his upbringing was. He loved him as the person he was, and Bilbo loved him back—not as a prince, but as himself.

 

And Bilbo was smiling down at him—his smile was brighter than any metal or gem Thorin had ever seen in his life. Because he simply couldn’t help himself, Thorin leaned up for another kiss.

 

Kissing Bilbo was…everything. He felt his every nerve set ablaze, his heart stuttered in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat. He titled his head slightly, changing the angle of the kiss. He more felt than heard Bilbo inhale sharply and took the opportunity to pry his mouth open with his tongue.

 

Something boomed and crackled above them, causing them both to jolt in fright. Thorin looked up into the night sky, seeing the dwindling sparks of a firework that had just been set off.

 

Dear Mahal, was it midnight already? The night had gone so fast….

 

“Oh, Gandalf’s starting his fireworks show…” Bilbo said in awe as another firework shot into the sky, showering the inky darkness with green and gold sparks that lit up Bilbo’s eyes in the most enchanted way. Thorin was transfixed.

 

More fireworks exploded above them, illuminating the sky with reds and blues and violets, and a look of horror overcame Bilbo’s countenance. “The fireworks show…” he whispered. Then in a flash, he was on his bare feet and running away, saying frantically, “I have to go, ohh, I have to go!”

 

It took Thorin’s brain a few seconds to catch up with what was happening. He shot to his feet and chased Bilbo through the gardens. “Bilbo! Wait!” he called, his voice barely heard over the thundering explosions of the fireworks.

 

The guests had started vacating the ballroom, making their way out to the gardens to see the incredible fireworks display. Thorin could see the crowd parting in certain places as Bilbo pushed through the throng of people blocking his way. The prince fought his way through, shoving people aside in the process. His cries of Bilbo’s name were lost in the din of chatter and bursts of fireworks in the sky.

 

He lost Bilbo somewhere in the ballroom—the shorter man was nigh impossible to locate amongst the much-taller citizens of Erebor. Panicked, Thorin looked around, darting this way and that until he saw Bilbo dashing up the steps of the grand staircase towards the exit.

 

“Bilbo!” he called again, refusing to give up the chase, refusing to lose the love of his life so soon after finding him. He forced his legs to run in double time, determined to catch up to Bilbo before he vanished.

 

By the time Thorin made it outside the palace, Bilbo was nowhere to be found. His heart thudded in his chest hard enough to physically pain him. He couldn’t have….

 

“Bilbo!” he cried into the night air, quiet and still and lonely save for the blasts of fireworks going off somewhere behind him. Thorin stumbled down a few steps, his legs turning to jelly and his blood running cold.

 

“Thorin!” a voice called from the grand doors of the palace. The eldest prince barely registered his brother’s presence until Frerin was standing in front of him on the next step down, hands on his shoulders to prevent him from falling.

 

As far as he was concerned, he’d already fallen. Fallen in love, only to be dropped off a precipice into an eternal pit of misery.

 

Bilbo….

 

He….

 

Frerin gave him a shake, looking more concerned than Thorin had ever seen him look before. “Thorin, what happened? What’s wrong?”

 

“He’s gone,” Thorin muttered listlessly. His legs finally gave out and he dropped to sit on the step, staring off into the distance. “Bilbo is gone.”

 

“What?” Frerin stared at his brother, incredulous. “But…you two were getting on so well! Why did he leave?”

 

Shaking his head, Thorin shrugged and rubbed a hand over his face. His other hand dropped beside him onto the step, where his fingers came into contact with a cloth of some sort. He looked down to see what it was and had to will his oncoming tears away.

 

There, sitting on the step, was a handkerchief.

 

Bilbo’s handkerchief.

 

Thorin knew it was Bilbo’s because he’d seen it before, when they met in the market. The off-white colour of the fabric, the gold B monogrammed in the corner—there was even a little red stain from the wine that had been spilled the day they met.

 

Tentatively, he picked up the handkerchief and held it close to his heart. He stared off into the distance once more, this time wearing an expression of terrible loss. “I don’t know. But he’s gone.”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo sagged against the front door of his home, breathing heavily and trying to calm the stuttering of his heart.

 

How could he have been so careless to not keep track of the time? If he had, he could have explained to Thorin that he had a curfew of sorts, and they would have been able to work things out. Instead, he had rushed to get away, leaving Thorin clueless and heartbroken.

 

The man had been suggesting _marriage_ , for Yavanna’s sake! And now, Bilbo didn’t know when he’d be able to see Thorin next without incurring the wrath of Lobelia.

 

Oh Eru, how was he going to fix this?

 

Once he felt well enough to stand upright, Bilbo slowly made his way to his bedroom. He started undoing the braids in his hair as he walked, depositing the beads into his mother’s old jewelry box on his bureau. He shook his hair out, some strands wavier than others from being in braids all night. He changed out of his formals and into a familiar ratty outfit, tenderly folding his waistcoat and stowing it in a drawer where Lobelia wouldn’t find it.

 

He reached into the pocket of his discarded trousers, only to find it strangely empty. Devoid of the one item he usually turned to for comfort.

 

His handkerchief was missing.

 

With a forlorn sigh, he spared himself a glance in the mirror on his wall, frowning at the dismal sight reflected back at him in the glass.

 

“Well, you had your fun tonight. Now it’s back to your lowly commoner self, Bilbo Baggins.”

 

* * *

 

It was well past one in the morning when the door to Bag End slammed open, shaking the entire house with the force.

 

“BILBO BAGGINS!” came a familiar shriek from the entry way, and Bilbo had never wanted to disappear more than he did in that moment. Dread wove its way into his bloodstream, but he tried to remain calm and composed at the kitchen table with his cup of lukewarm tea. His aunt’s stomps echoed through the house, the sound getting louder and louder as she drew nearer to the kitchen. Bilbo’s heart pounded with every thump of her heels.

 

She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, fuming. Bilbo looked up, meeting her fiery gaze with a steely glare of his own. He wasn’t going to let her trample all over him. Not anymore. This would end tonight.

 

“You had no _right_ ,” the vile woman spat. “No. Right.”

 

“I’m sure you’ll find I had every right,” Bilbo replied coldly, tightening his grip on his cup. “Every eligible lad and lass in the kingdom was invited, and last I checked, I am, in fact, an eligible lad.”

 

Lobelia surprised him by laughing—a manic, squealing kind of guffaw that had her clutching her stomach. It served no purpose but to fuel the fire of his already blazing anger.

 

“What is so _funny_ , you old hag?”

 

Said old hag sobered up immediately at the moniker, the heated glare set back in place on her ire-twisted features. “You actually thought that _you_ , half-Took that you are, could win Prince Thorin over?”

 

“And it worked, didn’t it?” Bilbo smirked, narrowing his eyes dangerously at her. It was time to pull out all the stops. “He was proposing marriage to me before the end of the night.”

 

“Liar!” Lobelia screamed, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You _dare_ speak such falsehoods in my home?!”

 

“It’s _my_ home!” Bilbo rose out of his chair so fast, it tipped back and crashed to the floor. His palms slammed the tabletop, rattling his tea cup until it almost spilled. “ _My_ father built this house for _my_ mother! It rightfully belongs to _me_!”

 

At that, Lobelia cackled—actually _cackled_ , like the evil witch she was. “Oh, Bilbo, you stupid fool. Your father was a fool, too, marrying your mother. A Baggins marrying a Took…preposterous!” Bilbo sent her a murderous look, but it didn’t deter her tirade one bit. “Your mother was a nut job, always going on about adventures and filling your head with ridiculous thoughts and dreams that will never, _ever_ happen.”

 

With a primal shriek, Bilbo hurled his half-empty tea cup at Lobelia’s head. She ducked out of the way in time, but the sound of it shattering on the floor was somehow comforting to Bilbo in his enraged state. “Don’t you _ever_ talk about my parents in such a manner,” he threatened, “or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

 

Lobelia advanced on him then, practically leaping over the small table and wrestling a flailing Bilbo to the floor. He managed a good punch straight to her eye before she restrained his limbs and shoved him roughly against the wooden floor, face-first. “ _You_ should have never been born, the disgrace that you are!”

 

Bilbo screamed as she twisted his arms behind his back and held fast. He kicked his legs wildly, hoping beyond hope that he’d clobber her in the head with his feet. No such luck came to him, and she manhandled him up and out of the kitchen. He was dragged through the halls of Bag End, kicking and screaming obscenities that would make a sailor cry.

 

When they reached his father’s study, Lobelia all but hurled him into the room and slammed the door shut. Bilbo heard the click of the lock over his heaving breaths and glared daggers at the door, his heart thundering in his chest. He haphazardly wiped the blood trickling out of his nose.

 

“Stay in there and rot, you disgusting waste of space,” Lobelia snarled from the other side of the door. “See if you marry Prince Thorin now.”

 

Slamming his already bruising fist into the floor, Bilbo let out an agonized wail and curled into himself in the middle of the floor. He sobbed and sobbed, choking on his tears and misery, until he cried himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin didn’t even knock before he entered the eldest prince’s chambers, closing the door behind him. The room was empty, devoid of any sign of life besides the flickering candles around the room. The huge glass door leading to the balcony was open, the dark blue velvet curtains whipping and blowing in the wind. And that was right where he headed.

 

The guard’s heavy steps echoed as he stepped out on the balcony. Thorin was there, standing by the rail and gazing out at something far in the distance. The sky was beginning to lighten, brighter shades of blue just starting to colour the horizon. In his hand was a delicate little handkerchief, which he hadn’t let go of since he’d found it on the stairs outside.

 

“Thorin,” Dwalin said, trying to get his attention. “Come inside and get some rest, lad.”

 

There was a long silence before the statuesque prince finally moved, shaking his head. “No. I cannot sleep knowing he’s out there and not by my side.”

 

Dwalin wanted to roll his eyes. This behavior was so unlike Thorin—the eldest Durin prince had never been prone to mooning over someone. He needed to get his head out of the clouds and listen to reason. “Thorin,” he said again, his voice firm and brooking no argument. “It’s nearly dawn. You need t’ come in and sleep, or eat, or…somethin’. Why are you actin’ like some lovesick fool? He’s just one man.”

 

Before Dwalin could blink, Thorin rounded on him and stared him down. “He’s not _just one man_ , he’s…” The prince seemed to struggle to find the right words, worrying the handkerchief in his hands. “He’s…Bilbo.”

 

Crossing his arms, Dwalin cocked his hip and gave Thorin the barest hint of a smile. “Then what are ya doin’ here still?” When Thorin looked confused, he elaborated, “Go find ‘im. If that’s what you really want.”

 

The prince glanced down at the handkerchief in his hands, looking thoughtful. He gave a single nod, almost as if to assure himself of something. Rough fingers gently folded the handkerchief into a little square before Thorin tucked it into the folds of his innermost tunic, by his heart.

 

“I’ll be on my way,” Thorin announced, striding past Dwalin into his chambers. He gathered a few belongings into a small pack, then found some clothing a bit more adequate for travel than his formal wear. Dwalin followed him inside, keeping a watchful eye on his charge and best friend. Just because he was no romantic didn’t mean that he wanted anything but the best for Thorin. And if this Bilbo Baggins was it, who was he to protest?

 

“Want me ta come with ya?”

 

Shaking his head, Thorin shucked his many topmost and embroidered cloaks in exchange for a simple tunic and long traveling coat. “No. I need to do this alone.”

 

* * *

 

Smoke trickled in tendrils from his nostrils as Gandalf puffed on his pipe, thumbing through one of the record books on the table before him. Something had been bothering him since the previous evening, from his disconcerting conversation with Bilbo back in Bag End.

 

If the wizard knew better, which he usually did, there was no possible way that Bungo Baggins, loving and honorable man that he was, would deny his only son ownership of a home he himself had so painstakingly built for his wife. Bungo may have been a bit uptight, but he was never cruel. Being married to someone like Belladonna Took had loosened him up considerably, and Gandalf couldn’t imagine that they would leave anything to such dreadful relatives as the Sackville-Bagginses.

 

After his fireworks show last night, Gandalf secluded himself in the records room of the palace library, where all legal documents of the citizens of Erebor were held. If he was going to discover the truth behind this conundrum, he had to start at the source. He had to find Bungo’s will.

 

He turned another few pages after skimming their contents until he came across the very name he sought. Tired eyes darted back and forth as he read the contents on the page. The wizard let out a final puff of smoke. This was it.

 

Smiling, he extracted the document from the book and rolled it up neatly. He stuffed the parchment in his robes and left the library, heading for the palace stables where he knew he’d find Thorin.

 

* * *

 

Thorin adjusted the saddle on his horse, tightening the straps enough to secure it without hurting poor Minty. Tiredly, he rubbed his hand down his face and blinked sleepiness from his eyes. He hadn’t slept a wink all night, too distraught about Bilbo’s sudden departure to even think about resting. Now, he’d been seized by a fierce determination to find his dear heart and bring him back. Whatever had made Bilbo flee last night, Thorin didn’t know. He was fairly confident that it had nothing to do with himself or his family. Something must’ve been going on in Bilbo’s personal life that Thorin knew nothing about.

 

Come to think of it…Thorin didn’t know much about Bilbo at all. This fact frustrated him beyond belief. How could someone fall in love with another without knowing much about the person?

 

However, the prince vowed to spend the rest of his life getting to know Bilbo inside and out. Things just felt… _right_ with him, and the emptiness Thorin hadn’t realized he harbored was filled by Bilbo’s presence.

 

With that thought in mind, Thorin mounted his horse and made ready to leave.

 

“Wait, Thorin!”

 

Thorin looked to the doors of the stables, where the voice had called from, to see Gandalf running inside. His grey robes billowed behind him.

 

“Gandalf? What is it?”

 

The wizard slowed to a stop in front of Minty, taking a moment to catch his breath. “You’re heading out to find Bilbo, yes?”

 

Nodding slowly, Thorin raised a brow. What on earth could the wizard want with Bilbo? He vaguely remembered Bilbo mentioning being friends with Gandalf, but thought nothing more on the subject.

 

Gandalf didn’t wait for a verbal response before he continued, “I know where you can find him. I will accompany you, for I have matters that need to be brought to his attention right away.”

 

Thorin’s heart skipped a beat. If Gandalf knew where Bilbo would be, that certainly made his search all the easier. He didn’t ask about these “matters” of which Gandalf spoke, and instead gestured to a far stall where they’d kept care of Gandalf’s horses for the night. “We must make haste,” the prince said. “I must get to him. Something is wrong, else he wouldn’t have left the way he did last night.”

 

“I hope we can reach him in time,” Gandalf said cryptically before heading over to the one named Shadowfax and preparing him for travel. “I fear things may have taken a turn for the worse.”

 

The wizard was rarely wrong about these things, his intuitiveness the stuff of legend. Fear gripped Thorin’s heart, but he kept his eyes forward. If he wanted to reach Bilbo, he couldn’t afford to keep worrying the entire way there.

 

* * *

 

When morning came, Bilbo relocated himself to his father’s armchair. He was cold from having slept on the floor, but he had no will or energy to do something about it. What was the point in starting a fire in the hearth if it would die out eventually? Grief weighed him down so much that he could do nothing but curl up in Bungo’s chair that still faintly smelled of his pipe weed, and stare listlessly into space. He hugged one of the worn decorative pillows closer, desperate for something familiar to cling to.

 

And he didn’t have his handkerchief, having dropped it somewhere like an idiot, so pillow it was.

 

There was a faint knocking on the door, which Bilbo tried to resolutely ignore.

 

“Bilbo?” a small voice said from outside the study.

 

His face scrunched up in irritation. He didn’t want to speak to Lotho any more than he wanted to speak to Lobelia. As far as he was concerned, both Otho and Lotho were as despicable as Lobelia—neither of them treated him better than a pebble in their shoe. Even Lotho’s rare moments of humanity couldn’t make up for what Bilbo suffered from his so-called family in the years since his parents’ passing.

 

“Bilbo, I’m so sorry,” Lotho continued, missing the point of Bilbo’s silence entirely. “I told Mum I saw you at the ball. I…didn’t think she’d react this way.”

 

Oh, and if that didn’t reignite Bilbo’s anger in an instant.

 

If his cousin was as sorry as he claimed, then he wouldn’t be standing outside the door like a coward. He’d be helping Bilbo get out of there instead of uselessly reiterating the same phrase that Bilbo just couldn’t give a fig about hearing.

 

“Take your fake apology and shove it up your arse, Lotho!” Bilbo growled loudly enough for his cousin to hear, throwing the pillow at the door for good measure. He heard Lotho skittering away beyond the door. Good riddance.

 

Wrapping his arms tight around himself, he burrowed deeper into the armchair and wished for all the world that he could just will himself out of existence.

 

* * *

 

Thorin and Gandalf came to a stop at the front gate of Bag End. It took all of Thorin’s willpower to keep himself from leaping off his horse and dashing for the door. He dismounted Minty and tied him off to the fence while Gandalf did the same to Shadowfax.

 

When they reached the rich green door, Thorin knocked a few solid times. He heard a bit of shuffling inside before the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman with frizzy greying hair, an impressive black eye, and a pinched expression.

 

However, when she realized exactly who was at the door, her entire demeanor changed and she gave a respectful curtsey. “Your Highness! To what do I owe the pleasure of you visiting my humble home?” she said politely, her voice high and nasally.

 

“I’m looking for someone named Bilbo Baggins. Am I correct in supposing he lives here?” Thorin asked just as politely, noting that the woman’s expression morphed into a sneer before turning pleasant once more.

 

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken, Your Highness. I have never heard of a Bilbo Baggins.”

 

Gandalf decided it was time for him to intervene. He stepped slightly in front of Thorin, leveling the woman with a hard stare that made her flinch. Thorin was impressed. “We don’t have time for your lies, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. I have important legal matters to discuss with Bilbo—you may want to be present for this discussion.”

 

Loebelia looked nervous, not that Thorin could blame her. Gandalf could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be. But Thorin himself was growing impatient. What was this woman playing at? Where was Bilbo?

 

“He…” The woman swallowed hard. “He isn’t here. I don’t know where he’s gone or when he’ll be back!” Her voice had raised in pitch the more she spoke.

 

Thorin was losing his patience. No, he’d lost his patience hours ago. Now he was just getting irritated. He made to brush past the woman and stride into the house, but she blocked his path. Her bruised eye twitched as she tried to stare him down to no avail. He wouldn’t be so easily threatened by this liar.

 

“As your crowned prince, I command you to let me pass.”

 

Lobelia hesitated for another moment, but finally conceded and stepped aside. Her face puckered as if she’d eaten something particularly sour. Without so much as a “by your leave,” Thorin swept into the house with Gandalf at his heels. They passed through the foyer and into the sitting room, looking around. There were various doors and halls leading elsewhere into the house. A skittish young man gaped at them from his chair—Thorin recognized him as one of the lads he’d danced with last night.

 

They didn’t make it much further in their search before the shrieking started.

 

“Please, Your Highness, I’m begging you!” Lobelia cried out, running straight for the shy lad in the sitting room—who looked downright terrified at this point. She dragged her son out of his chair and held him out to Thorin as if he were on display. “Take my son Lotho as your husband! He will be the best lover you’ve ever had! And he’s a wonderful conversationalist!”

 

Lotho, to his credit, did at least half-try to stop his mother’s outrageous claims. “Mum,” he muttered, nudging her none-too-subtly. Lobelia ignored him, pulling him forward and practically shoving him into Thorin’s arms.

 

The prince yelped in surprise as suddenly he had an armful of Lotho. He let go almost immediately and Lotho shot back just as fast, pale and shaking so badly that Thorin thought he’d faint on the spot.

 

This little hiccup didn’t stop Lobelia. She continued without missing a beat, “He’s of much better blood than Bilbo! Why, you know Bilbo’s _half-Took_?! Shameful family—“

 

“Enough!”

 

Thorin was about to say as such, but Gandalf beat him to the punch. Suddenly, the room grew darker and colder. Gandalf loomed over all of them, seeming much taller than he really was. Something in the air crackled—Thorin thought it must have been the wizard’s magic at play.

 

“Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, you will hold your tongue of any further drivel and _tell us where Bilbo Baggins is_!”

 

“Never!” the woman shrieked.

 

* * *

 

The commotion outside the door was getting ridiculous. Bilbo was trying to have the sulk of his life and there was so much noise that he couldn’t stand it. He unfurled himself from his father’s armchair and stomped over to the locked door, pounding loudly on the wood with his still-healing hand. The impact on the wood sent shocks of pain through the injured appendage.

 

“Keep it down out there! I’d like to wallow in my misery with some peace and _quiet_ , thank you!” he shouted angrily, giving the door a kick before turning and sliding down to the floor. Heaving an aggravated sigh, he threw his head back against the door with a thud and let his eyes slide shut . A headache was beginning to take root, though he wasn’t sure if it was from his annoyance or lack of sustenance for several hours. And he was sore—sore from sleeping on the floor, sore from being all but smothered by Lobelia, sore that nothing in his life ever seemed to work out the way he wanted.

 

“Bilbo?!” a voice called from beyond the door.

 

His eyes flew open at the call of his name. The voice was familiar; he’d know that deep tenor anywhere. But…there was no possible way he could be hearing that voice, because its owner surely couldn’t be here. It was impossible.

 

Deciding that it was just his imagination—Eru, he really _was_ going crazy—Bilbo closed his eyes again and reached for the decorative pillow he’d thrown earlier. He held the stitched pillow over his face to block out the light coming in from the window.

 

“Bilbo!” the same voice called, louder this time. Closer.

 

“Go _away_!” Bilbo shouted, his voice muffled by the pillow on his face. He wasn’t going to let his mind play tricks on him, no sir.

 

“Bilbo, it’s me! It’s Thorin!” the voice assured him from the other side. Bilbo almost dismissed it again, and would have if not for the two insistent pounds on the door.

 

The pillow fell from his hands.

 

“Thorin?” he croaked, too quietly for anyone outside the study to hear.

 

Thorin was…he was really here? He had come for him?

 

“Bilbo, please, answer me!” Thorin pleaded with another couple pounds to the door.

 

Bilbo was up in a flash, slapping the door with his palms to let Thorin know he was here. “Thorin! Get me out of here!”

 

Things quieted down on the other side for a few tense moments. Desperate, Bilbo pressed his ear to the door to see if he could hear anything. There were muffled voices, several of them, followed by a shriek that couldn’t have come from anyone but Lobelia. Something clicked in the lock, and Bilbo’s heart sped up.

 

He stepped back from the door just before it opened, revealing his prince on the other side. Without a second thought, Bilbo threw himself at Thorin and clung to him as if he were the only lifeline keeping him from falling down into a great, abysmal chasm. “Thorin,” he mumbled into the man’s tunic, burying his face in his chest. Strong arms came up to wrap around him, pulling him close.

 

“Bilbo,” Thorin said into his curls. Bilbo could feel his warm breath against his scalp.

 

“Pardon me, Your Highness, but might I borrow your beloved for just a few minutes? I have something of grave importance to discuss with him,” another familiar voice said from behind Thorin. Bilbo backed up just enough to look over Thorin’s shoulder. His face lit up.

 

“Gandalf!”

 

The old wizard smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “My dear boy, please, come with me to the kitchen.” Gandalf started towards the aforementioned room, shooting a furious Lobelia a glare as he passed her. “I’ll need you present as well,” he told her.

 

Slowly, the group made their way to the kitchen. Thorin and Bilbo sat at one side of the table, Gandalf facing them. Lobelia hovered in the doorway looking murderous, and Lotho was close behind her looking like a frightened animal.

 

Not wasting any time, Gandalf reached into his robes and pulled out a rolled parchment tied with a small string. He handed it out to Bilbo, who took it gingerly in his hands. “This is for you.”

 

Examining the parchment, Bilbo pulled at the string until it came loose. He unraveled the tie and unrolled the parchment, letting out a gasp once he saw what was written on the page.

 

“M-my…my father’s will?” he choked out, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. He felt Thorin’s arm close around his shoulder and pull him closer. Emerald eyes looked up at Gandalf, widened in shock.

 

The wizard nodded, gesturing to the parchment. “I do believe you’ll find something of importance if you read a bit further down.”

 

Doing as he was bid, Bilbo skimmed the will written in Bungo’s own hand. He would have been able to recognize the penmanship anywhere. His heart swelled with sudden adoration and longing for his father and he blinked back a few tears. Nevertheless, he read on. When he reached about the middle of the document, his eyes widened even further than before. His breath caught in his throat, and he felt lightheaded and ready to pass out.

 

He had to set the parchment down before he tore it in his shaking fingers. Shell-shocked, he looked up at his wizard friend.

 

“Bag End is mine?”

 

“Fully and unequivocally,” Gandalf affirmed with a kind, grandfatherly smile.

 

“So that means…”

 

“The will in Mrs. Sackville-Baggins’ possession was forged,” Gandalf finished. He sent the woman a pointed look. She remained mercifully silent—Bilbo didn’t think his ears could take any more of her infernal shrieking.

 

Courage flooded through him in that moment. Courage that he never thought he’d gain in his whole life. He slipped out of Thorin’s grasp and stood, taking slow and deliberate steps until he stood right in front of Lobelia. He was shorter than her by a few inches, but he still felt taller, still felt like he was glaring down at her. To her credit, she didn’t seem cowed by his commanding demeanor. She just looked pissed.

 

“Get. Out. Of my house,” Bilbo stated, plain as day, in the most even and authoritative tone he could muster.

 

Lobelia looked like she wanted to fight back, but with both a wizard and the crowned prince sending her death glares, she wisely backed down. “You will regret this, Bilbo Baggins, mark my words. Come, Lotho,” she ordered, steering her son towards the front door. When they left, Lobelia made sure to slam the door enough to shake the walls.

 

“I can have her arrested for threatening you, with you being the future Prince Consort and all,” Thorin piped up, sounding amused.

 

Bilbo shook his head, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “No…I don’t believe that will be necessary.” Funny, yes, he thought. But unnecessary. He wasn’t afraid of Lobelia. He never would be again.

 

And for the first time since his parents’ deaths, Bilbo felt like he could breathe.

 

* * *

 

It was amazing how much lighter his beloved looked from one moment to the next. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from Bilbo’s shoulders, and Thorin couldn’t be happier for him. A quiet laugh bubbled from Bilbo, getting louder and louder by the second. It was the most beautiful, joyous sound the prince had ever heard.

 

He rose from his own chair and approached Bilbo, sweeping the laughing man into his arms and stealing a kiss from those smiling lips. Thorin lifted Bilbo completely off the ground and spun him around, showering him with kisses and Bilbo returning them in kind. They laughed and rejoiced, with Gandalf watching them fondly, for now they had each other and Bilbo had his home back.

 

His home….

 

The thought of Bilbo staying here rather than living in the palace with him hit Thorin like a punch to the gut. He set Bilbo back down but didn’t let go—if anything, his hold on his beloved tightened. He didn’t want to let Bilbo go, not again.

 

“Dearest?” Bilbo said, reaching up to caress Thorin’s cheek. “Is everything all right?”

 

“I just…” Thorin trailed off, leaning ever so slightly into Bilbo’s touch. “You’ve just gotten your home back. How can I think to tear you away from it so soon, to marry me?” It wouldn’t be fair to Bilbo to rip him from his home, but Thorin couldn’t live here with him. He was a prince, and he had to stay in the palace with the rest of his royal family. The thought of being separated from Bilbo was too much to bear.

 

But Bilbo just smiled at him, emerald eyes shining as bright as gems in sunlight. “You know, we could always use this as a home-away-from-home. Somewhere we can come to when we’re sick of the palace and need to get away for a few days.”

 

Thorin brightened at that idea. Oh, how lovely would that be to have a getaway. A place to go to escape the frivolities of court life. “I can think of nothing better,” the prince said, taking Bilbo’s lips in another, more insistent kiss. His hands moved up, cradling Bilbo’s jaw and extending to the back of his neck. Bronze curls tickled his fingers. He felt Bilbo smile into the kiss.

 

But, in all the joy of the moment, there was something Thorin was forgetting.

 

He parted from Bilbo just enough to reach into his tunic and pull something from within. Once he presented the item, Bilbo let out a gasp.

 

“My handkerchief! But where—“

 

“You dropped it on the staircase last night,” Thorin told him, taking Bilbo’s left hand and holding it between them. With utmost care, he tied the old, dear handkerchief around Bilbo’s left wrist and finished it off with a loose knot. “With this gesture, I, Thorin, ask you, Bilbo, for your hand in marriage.”

 

The eager kiss he received from Bilbo was answer enough.

 

In this moment, he was just Thorin. Bilbo was just Bilbo. And that was all he could ever hope to ask for in his happily ever after.


End file.
